


The Stray

by gwenweybourne



Category: The Monkees (Band), The Monkees (TV)
Genre: Drug Addiction, Dysfunctional Family, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Gen, Homelessness, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Origin Story, Platonic Affection, Writing this as a gift, chosen family, head canon, not my head canon, show-verse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-11
Updated: 2020-02-19
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:20:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21762109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gwenweybourne/pseuds/gwenweybourne
Summary: Mike's pa said California would chew him up and spit him out -- and he was right. Out of money and with nowhere to live, things are looking desperate for Mike ... until he meets a very, very strange boy named Micky.
Relationships: Micky Dolenz & Mike Nesmith
Comments: 24
Kudos: 28





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> If this story seems familiar it's because it's based on the same head canon as obwjam's excellent [Origins](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21685711/chapters/51720916) fic. I also lifted the detail about Micky working at a music store from their fic. It's not my intention to step on any toes here. This is just my take on someone else's concept. nesmith-tundra's head canon on Tumblr has turned into something of a group art project, with different fans offering fic and artwork and I just think it's really cool. I also incorporated some dialogue from brackets-and-woolly-hats's [almost unbearably adorable cartoon](https://brackets-and-woolly-hats.tumblr.com/post/189505544586/i-really-love-nesmith-tundras-little-headcanon).
> 
> I also thought it would be an interesting exercise for me to write gen fic featuring a platonic relationship. That's, uh, not my usual racket, as you know. *coughs*
> 
> I may or may not add more to it. I just need it out of my head so I can keep working on my Christmas fic!

_I’m just furniture. If I stay real still and don’t speak, I’m just furniture. Furniture belongs. Sometimes it gets moved around or sat on, but it belongs. If I’m furniture, then I belong, too._

This had become something of a mantra as Mike Nesmith sat on the sofa that had been his makeshift bed for the past three nights. The apartment in which Mike and the sofa currently resided was unfamiliar. Though after three days of staring at its walls it was becoming more familiar. But when its proper tenant, a strange, vibrant, curly-haired boy named Micky, was out at work, and Mike was left alone, he felt a sense of paralysis. This wasn’t his home. He didn’t feel right about even moving around inside, let alone touching anything.

“Help yourself to anything!” Micky had said those words, or some variation thereof, so many times they had started to lose meaning. “You can eat anything in the fridge. Or read my books or watch TV or whatever you want! Please make yourself at home.”

 _At home_. Even when Mike had had a home it didn’t always feel much like one. That was why and how he’d learned to act like furniture. Pa wouldn’t throw out furniture. Furniture was worth something. Mike knew he wasn’t worth much of anything, but if he’d learned if he acted like furniture then he had a better chance of being left alone. Furniture had a place in a house.

* * *

_One month ago_

“California?” Mike’s pa scoffed when Mike finally worked up the nerve to announce his intention to leave the family home in Texas and move to California to pursue his music. “Boy, that place’ll eat you alive. Chew you up and spit you out. Fulla nothin’ but freaks ’n’ sinners.”

“Reckon I got a shot,” Mike said, struggling to maintain eye contact and keep his voice steady and firm. “The kind of music I play ain’t takin’ off here right now, but I know it’s happening out there. I need to be where the audience is.”

His father let out another mocking bark of laughter. “You think you’re gonna be some kind of star, boy? I certainly ain’t raised you to have such high notions. You know what you’re gonna be out there? What you’re gonna be is flat broke on the street and degrading yourself to stay alive. Ain’t no free lunch. Everyone’s got an angle and you’re nothin’ but a babe in the woods.”

“Well, maybe I got an angle, too,” Mike had said softly, but fiercely, his body on high alert, ready to dodge if his father flicked a fist out as he liked to do sometimes just to remind everyone who was boss in the Nesmith household.

“You reckon you’re a big man, now, huh?” His old man gored Mike with his fierce, dark gaze, his face contorted with disdain. “Fine. Go. Break your mother’s heart. I’ll be glad to be shot of you. One less mouth to feed. But don’t come crawlin’ back here when you fail just like you failed at everything you done. What a disappointment you’ve turned out to be.”

That was the last thing his father had said to him before Mike had put his meager belongings in a bag, kissed his crying mother and siblings goodbye, and left home. He had saved enough money for a one-way Greyhound bus ticket and some more to float him for a place to stay until he landed a gig or some kind of job.

But his pa had been right, after all. Mike had had no understanding of how much things cost in the city in California compared to back home. The music scene was crowded and competitive and cliquey and Mike didn’t know anyone. Landing gigs was all about networking and networking was hard when you were were shy and scared and hungry because there was only enough money for either a place to sleep or for food, but not for both. He tried looking for regular work, but it seemed like every joe-job he found in the want ads was quickly snapped up by another hungry wannabe musician or actor.

Soon there was money for neither food nor shelter. Getting a normal job was off the table once he didn’t have a fixed address. And, just as his father had predicted, Mike found himself living on the street. But he wasn’t degrading himself. It would take a lot more before he would even consider doing anything to compromise what little dignity he had left. He did his best to earn money by busking, rather than flat-out begging for it. He didn’t steal, he didn’t lie, but he was learning to avoid certain kinds of people who offered “help” with predatory strings attached.

He’d thought Micky was one of those people at first. But by then Mike had been so hungry, so dirty, so tired, and so demoralized that he let Micky take him home. Unsure of what he would be expected to do when they got there. His father’s voice echoed in his head. _I told you so. Look at the state of you. Letting some strange man pick you up off the street like a common whore._

But there was another voice — one very much his own. _It’s okay._ _Something about this boy is okay. Just go along with it for now._

Because it was very difficult to look at Micky Dolenz and believe he had bad intentions. Micky had shown Mike nothing but unadulterated, genuine, enthusiastic kindness since their first meeting. Mike had noticed him around. Micky worked at the local music store. Mike had even been inside a few times — he couldn’t afford anything, but he found it comforting being around all of the instruments and other people who loved music as much as he did.

Like Micky. The curly-haired boy greeted him with a resounding “HI!” every time Mike had entered the shop. He always tried very hard to engage Mike in conversation about rock ’n’ roll, but Mike demurred, feeling self-conscious because he couldn’t buy anything and felt like he didn’t have a right to be there and Micky’s attention just made him feel put on the spot. But Micky never gave up.

Eventually, though, Mike stopped coming into the store altogether because his appearance had deteriorated a great deal in the couple of weeks since he’d started sleeping rough. His clothes were dirty and smelly in spite of his occasional attempts to rinse them wherever he could and let them dry overnight, but more often than not he woke up and found that something had been stolen during the night. A shirt. His only other pair of jeans. He’d wondered at first why anyone would want his filthy, stinky clothes, but then conceded that it was probably someone who was worse off than him and then he felt sympathy for them and forgave them and hoped that they were able to make good use of what they had taken. He knew he himself wasn’t that far off from having to resort to stealing to survive.

He’d dropped weight from his already-slender frame and was growing a patchy beard since it was difficult to find a place to shave. He looked like a bum and he felt like a bum. He felt ashamed all the time. _What a disappointment I’ve turned out to be._

The park where Mike usually slept was on the way to the music store. One day, in the early evening, Micky was walking home from his shift at the same time Mike had returned from his daily ritual of wandering the city and looking for discarded food or a place to play his guitar a little bit to try to earn some money. But his dishevelled appearance meant more people hurried by him rather than pausing a moment to enjoy the music and consider throwing him a coin or two.

Mike was carefully checking to see if his usual spot was available or if it had been taken over by other squatters. He’d learned the hard way that there was an unwritten code of the park in terms of what territory belonged to whom. But since he was all on his own and couldn’t put up much of a fight, he just tried to carve out space wherever he could without bothering anyone or making himself too noticeable.

“Oh … HI! It’s you!”

Mike turned, startled, looking right into the warm brown eyes of the curly-haired boy from the music store. He blinked, silent, for a moment. “Um … hullo.”

The boy smiled widely at him and Mike wanted to curl up on himself, so ashamed by his appearance. He knew he smelled bad and it must be so off-putting.

But the boy kept smiling and talking. “Gee, I hadn’t seen you around the shop for a long time and wondered if you’d split town, but here you are! How’ve you been?”

Mike shrugged, avoiding eye contact, wanting this interaction to end as quickly as possible. _You done your good deed for the day, man. Talked to the stinky bum like he’s a human being. Now off you go back to your warm, clean house._

“Hey, guess what today is?” he continued on without waiting for Mike to reply. “It’s payday! The best day! I don’t usually go tellin’ strangers about that but you’re not a stranger, not really, and I know you wouldn’t rob me just because I told you I got paid. I was going to go buy some groceries and cook dinner. I’m not a very good cook, but I try real hard. I think I’m getting better. Come over for dinner! I don’t really know how to cook for just one person so I always have too much left over and I hate leftovers. Get so bored eating the same thing over and over …” he trailed off, clearly realizing that this skinny boy would probably love to have that problem. “Anyway! Please come. My name is Micky — what’s yours?”

Mike blinked again, looking at Micky, utterly bewildered by what was happening, but at the words “cook” and “groceries” and “leftovers,” his stomach had started to growl — at the same time it was feeling a little sick with nerves. What did Micky want with him? Why was he being so nice? Was this a trick?

“I’m Mike,” he said softly, before he had a chance to change his mind. “It’s okay, Micky … it’s mighty nice of you, but —”

“Okay!” Micky said happily, taking Mike’s dirty duffle bag off his shoulder as if they were old buddies, and slinging it over his own. “Let’s go!” And he walked off down the street with Mike’s belongings.

Well, shoot. That was a dirty trick. Now Mike had no choice but to follow him. He didn’t have much left, but it was all he had. That, and his guitar. At least Micky hadn’t taken that in case Mike had to make a run for it. He sighed, picking up his case and following Micky, who’d slowed down to let Mike catch up.

Micky babbled at Mike all the way to the grocery store. About his job, about the weather, about what he’d dreamed about last night (“Flying dolphins! It was so groovy!”), and all kinds of other things that Mike tried to pay attention to, but he was exhausted after making his daily circuit around town and usually by now he was trying to sleep before his hunger pangs kept him up all night. Not to mention that the sun was rising around 5:00 a.m. lately and there was no sleeping after that.

Micky led them to the supermarket and went to go inside, but Mike hesitated out front, looking at Micky with wide, alarmed eyes, and his head shook just the tiniest bit. Micky stopped and looked back at him. He smiled softly and nodded.

“It’s okay, Mike. How about you wait out here for me, then?” He slipped Mike’s bag off his shoulder and held it out to him. “Here, I’m sorry … I know that was kind of a sneaky thing to do. I just … really want you to come over and have dinner with me. That’s all, I promise. I’m not … I’m not trying to trick you into anything. I’m not a creep. You look hungry and I’m hungry and I have food … well, I will have food soon and I just want to share. Okay? I’ll … understand if you split while I’m in the store, but I hope you won’t.”

Mike hesitantly reached out and took the handles of the bag, careful not to touch Micky’s clean fingers with his filthy ones. He nodded silently.

“Okay.” Micky smiled again. “What do you like to eat?”

Mike stared at him.

“Oh, spaghetti!” said Micky. “I haven’t had spaghetti in a while. With bread to soak up the sauce. Lots of bread. Lots of sauce. Yum! Okay, be back in a minute!” And he disappeared into the store.

Mike furrowed his brow. What a strange, strange boy Micky was. Mike couldn’t wrap his head around why this near-complete stranger was insisting he come over for supper. He shouldered his bag and considered heading back to the park. To something that, while unpleasant, was at least somewhat familiar. But now he was thinking about noodles and red sauce and hunks of crusty bread to fill his stomach and he helplessly had to admit to himself that he was willing to deal with whatever the catch was to this arrangement.

Micky said he wasn’t a creep, but isn’t that what creeps said to people? Was that something he knew or just another thing his pa had told him?

* * *

About ten minutes had passed when the security guard noticed Mike. Mike had been trying very hard to blend into the shadows and not look like he was loitering. He avoided all eye contact so people wouldn’t think he was panhandling outside the store, but he felt their judgmental glares all the same.

He was staring at the ground when a pair of shiny black shoes entered his line of vision.

“You need to move along now, son,” a male voice said gruffly.

Mike looked up in alarm. “Oh … but … I …” he mumbled, unsure of how to explain his situation. And would the rent-a-cop even believe him?

The guard cocked his head and he folded his arms over his chest. “Do I need to repeat myself? This is store property and if you aren’t a paying customer, you can’t be hanging around out here.”

“Mike … hey, MIKE!” Both the guard and Mike looked in the direction of the loud voice. Micky ran up with two bulging brown paper grocery sacks cradled in his arms. Micky pointedly shoved one of the bags at Mike, who stumbled back at the force, but managed to keep the sack from spilling over. “Sorry that took so long … the line at the checkout was really long. Big sale on — super groovy.” He smiled at the guard. “Good evening, sir. I hope you have a nice weekend!”

The security guard frowned and made a harrumphing sound as Micky picked up Mike’s guitar and led him away from the store.

“Jeez, you’d think he’s got better things to do than hassle young people minding their own beeswax,” Micky muttered crossly. It was the first time Mike had heard him sound anything but relentlessly cheerful. For some reason it made Mike feel a little bit better. Like Micky was … just a regular guy. Well … kind of.

* * *

By the time they reached reached Micky’s apartment building and climbed the stairs, Mike was struggling to put one foot in front of the other. Micky put down Mike’s guitar and balanced the bag of groceries on his hip as he fumbled for his keys. The moment he slid the key into the lock, a chorus of barking rang out on the other side of the door. Mike startled a bit.

“Don’t worry, Mike … it’s just my dog. Hey, You! Hi, girl! Her name is You … get it? Hey, You?” Micky cracked up at his own joke and opened the door, giggling as an excited small dog ran up, yapping and barking and jumping up at Micky’s knees. Micky walked inside to set down the groceries. Mike picked up his guitar and carried it inside, warily skirting the dog. He actually liked dogs a lot, but had encountered some mean strays on the street and he was already on edge about going into a stranger’s apartment.

 _Maybe I’m a mean stray, too. Maybe we’re not mean … just hungry and scared_.

The apartment was small and cluttered, but clean and cozy. Mike deposited the bag of groceries on the counter and then, with his one useful task accomplished, stood frozen in the middle of the small living room. Micky busied himself with unpacking the groceries as the dog yapped and whined and ran circles around him until Micky put some food in her bowl and then she quieted and settled down to eating. Several minutes passed before Micky noticed that Mike hadn’t moved or said anything.

“Hey … relax, Mike. Have a seat. Can I get you something to drink? No booze, sorry — I’m only nineteen and not much of a drinker, anyway. I’m told I’m kind of a wacky drunk. But, like, not in the good way. Oh, I have some nice orange juice. How about that?”

Mike blinked.

Micky was already pouring a glass and was handing it to Mike, nodding at the sofa behind him. “Take a load off, man.”

Mike glanced at the sofa, then down at his dirty clothes, at the cold glass of juice in his grubby hand, and then back at Micky.

“I …” he whispered, then cleared his throat and tried again, but his voice was very small. “May I please use your bathroom?”

Micky grinned. “Oh my gosh, of course, Mike! And I haven’t even given you the grand tour yet! It’s super short, don’t worry, hahaha!” He chuckled at his own joke, taking the glass from Mike and setting it on the scuffed wooden coffee table.

Micky took Mike through the tiny apartment in about forty-five seconds. Though Micky had so many knick-knacks and books and just … stuff … that Mike could barely take it all in. The “tour” concluded at the bathroom. Micky looked at Mike and hesitated for a moment before saying, “I don’t wanna sound presumptuous … and like, you’re fine as you are, Mike, but, like, if you wanted to take a bath … I’d be fine with that. Just sayin’.”

Mike tensed up, ashamed that he was in a situation where someone had to offer him a bath, but at the same time it was the one thing he wanted almost as much as food and a place to sleep. He nodded almost imperceptibly.

“Okay!” Eager to be helpful, Micky disappeared into his bedroom and emerged a few moments later with a fluffy blue bath towel, a matching blue washcloth, and some clothes folded on top, which he handed to Mike.

_He’s giving me his own clothes to wear so I don’t gotta put my dirty things back on._

He looked up Micky, astonished. Micky beamed. “There’s lots of soap and shampoo and whatever you need. Just look for it … it’s a tiny bathroom so it won’t take long. Oh … wait!”

Micky ran down the short hall and then he came back with Mike’s glass of juice. “Take this. Enjoy in the tub!”

Mike blinked at Micky. This really was too much to take in.

Micky nodded at the door handle. “It locks from the inside. Just sayin’.” As if he knew that Mike might feel a little nervous being naked in the bath in a strange place.

* * *

And so Mike had locked the door and taken a long, hot bath, refilling the tub twice after the water went black and then grey. He’d worried about this at first, but every now and then Micky hollered some kind of cheerful reassurance or another down the hall:

“Don’t worry — water’s included with the rent, so use as much as you want!”

“Use the bubble bath … it smells like strawberries!”

“Take your time, man … I’m having some of this bread … it’s so good! The spaghetti won’t take long to cook.”

* * *

Mike sure didn’t talk much. Micky finally forced himself to stop yelling down the hall every ten minutes. He could hear faint splashing sounds that didn’t sound like drowning sounds, so he assumed Mike was okay.

You jumped up on his lap tried to eat a piece of bread from his hand, but he pulled it away before relenting and breaking off a small piece for her as she settled into his lap. Micky petted the dog idly and thought. He wasn’t sure what had prompted him to bring this weird, silent, dirty boy into his apartment, but he’d just know it was something he needed to do. Because he kept seeing Mike around town and every time Micky saw him, Mike looked skinnier and dirtier and sadder. And it hurt Micky’s heart in a way he couldn’t explain, but something told him he needed to do something. Because every time he saw Mike he worried it would be the last time and then he’d always wonder if something really bad had finally happened to him and what if Micky could have helped?

He didn’t have much, but he had enough to share … at least for tonight. Back when Mike used to come into the music shop, always toting his battered guitar case, Micky had noticed the way he had looked around at everything in awe. Touched things very reverently. It was obvious that he wasn’t able to buy anything, but he never stole. Never even tried to steal. Micky had gotten pretty good at spotting shoplifters. With so many struggling musicians in town, it was all too common for people to come in and try to lift some strings or drumsticks. Which cost next to nothing compared to their higher-ticket items like guitars and trombones and drum kits— if it were up to Micky, he’d give strings and picks and sticks away for free. Because those were the things that wore out/got lost the easiest and people needed them to play. And people needed to play to be able to work. And then people could get work as musicians and wasn’t that the point of a music store? But then again, he wasn’t a businessman — just a dopey kid with rent to pay and a dog to feed. And now a skinny, dirty Texan kid. Who Micky inexplicably liked even though Mike had said maybe five words to him so far. He just had a good feeling about the guy. He clearly needed a friend … so why shouldn’t Micky try to be that friend? Maybe Micky needed a friend, too. He was a social butterfly who knew lots and lots of people, but how many people knew him? Did he really know anyone that well?

Micky shook those thoughts away, put You back down on the floor, and went to put on the water to boil. Mike had been in the tub a long time and Micky might as well start dinner.

* * *

Mike sat in the steaming water and finished the tart, fresh juice, willing the Vitamin C to absorb into his cells as fast as possible. He’d washed every part of him, from behind his ears to in between his toes. He scrubbed the black gunk out from under his fingernails. When he finally drained the water for the last time he’d never felt cleaner in his life. He dried off with the fluffy towel and then put on the clothes Micky had loaned him. He felt weird about wearing another guy’s shorts, but less weird than wearing nothing underneath the pants. The pants were a bit short, but otherwise everything fit pretty well since he and Micky were both tall and skinny.

He chanced a glance in the mirror. He still sported the scraggly beard, but it was nice to see his face clean again. His hair was messy but no longer dirty. He did his best to finger-comb it and then hung up the towel to dry. He frowned at his balled-up dirty clothes on the floor, but had no choice but to pick them up. Now that he was clean the smell seemed extra offensive. How had Micky withstood his company so far?

He emerged from the bathroom and hesitantly moved down, almost smiling a little to himself as Micky was loudly singing something that sounded Italian in an affected opera-singer voice while he stirred the noodles in a pot of boiling water.

_“Volare oh, oh!_

_“Cantare oh, oh!_

_“Nel blu dipinto di blu,_

_“Felice di stare lassù,_

_“E volavo, volavo felice più in alto del sole,_

_“Ed ancora più su!”_ Micky turned around and faced Mike, holding the wooden spoon up to his face like a microphone, swaying and gesturing dramatically like a crooner.

_“Mentre il mondo pian piano spariva lontano laggiù,_

_“Una musica dolce suonava soltanto per me!”_

Mike blinked.

Micky grinned and lowered the spoon. “No? I know people like Deano’s version better because it’s mostly in English, but I grew up with my dad singing Domenico Modugno’s original Italian version when I was a kid. I’m part Italian, you know!”

Mike blinked, pressing his lips together.

“‘Volare’? No? Really? It’s a classic, man. I mean, it’s corny old-people-music-classic, but still a classic. It’s my spaghetti-making song! Anyway — looks like you had a good bath. Oh … you can just put your clothes down over there. I’d wash ’em for you but I don’t have a washing machine here. Gotta go to the laundromat a few blocks away. But oh my gosh, it’s run by this totally groovy chick and that makes it all worth it. Her name is April and WOWIE ZOWIE, Mike … she’s outta sight …” Micky let out a low whistle and returned to monitor the noodles and sauce. “Hey, could you set the table? We’re getting to the critical point here. My dad would never forgive me if the noodles were anything but a perfect _al dente_. This is about the only thing I can do really right in the kitchen, which is why I decided to make it for us. Plates, knives, and forks and all that stuff is just over here.”

Mike nodded, putting his fetid clothes down in a corner where he hoped they wouldn’t stink up the room too much. He placed his dirty juice glass in the sink and gingerly moved around to gather the things for the tiny dining table, trying to stay out of Micky’s way, even though it was a challenge in the small kitchen. Micky continued to hum and sing to himself, but more quietly now.

* * *

And then they had dinner. Mike had been worried about having to make conversation, but Micky seemed content to stuff his face with spaghetti, twirling the noodles onto his fork with a dexterity that Mike lacked, but then again, he was Texan, not Italian. He had tucked his napkin into the collar of his borrowed T-shirt and ate carefully, not wanting to stain clothes that weren’t his. But, at the same time, he was so famished, it was hard not to wolf the entire bowl down in two minutes flat. He tried to pace himself so he didn’t finish before Micky, but he couldn’t help himself. He’d barely put his fork down when Micky took his bowl and filled it again. “I didn’t know how much to make so I just made the entire package,” he explained. “Heh, I guess I don’t know how much to cook for two people, either! But it was on sale, so it’s no big deal! Eat as much as you want!”

Mike finished half of his second bowl and was torn between not wanting to waste food, but he was also worried about making himself sick because he hadn’t had such a big meal in such a long time and maybe his shrunken stomach would reject it later. Also, he was realizing that when the meal was over, his time in the strange little apartment with the strange boy was over as well and then he’d be outside again, trying to find somewhere to sleep. All the “good” places in the park would be gone by now. He was suddenly filled with a sad, lonely feeling and unconsciously pushed his bowl away.

_Oh, come on. You got to have a bath and you have a full belly. What more do you expect from this guy? More important, what more does he expect from you?_

Suddenly, he was aware of Micky’s eyes on him and he looked up guiltily, worried that he had a strange look on his face or looked ungrateful.

“You should sleep here,” Micky said suddenly. “Yeah … you should definitely sleep here! It’s dark out and you’re full of spaghetti and you should stay here and sleep.”

Mike blinked. “Huh?” _Is this it? Is this why he asked me to come and eat with him? What does he want me to do? Do I have to do it … whatever “it” is? Can I just make a run for it?_

Micky stood up from the table and moved off into the hallway. “I only got the one bed,” he called out, “so you’ll have to sleep on the sofa. Sorry about that. But it’s pretty comfortable. I’ve slept on it a bunch of times myself.”

Mike stood up from the table and took a few hesitant steps into the living room. Micky bustled back out, his arms heaped with bedding, which he tossed onto the sofa. “But I’ll give you my softest blanket and my fluffiest pillows! My mom bought them and she’s got great taste for that stuff, lemme tell ya.”

Mike looked down at the warm, clean blanket and pillows on the sofa, then up at Micky, speechless.

Micky almost reached out to pat Mike on the shoulder, but thought better of it. “You’ll stay, won’t you? You sleeps on my bed, so she won’t bother you at all. I do have a shift at the store tomorrow at ten a.m. We can have breakfast together, okay?”

Mike realized that he really should probably say something now. He nodded. “Um … okay. … thank you.”

He was rewarded by that high-wattage smile that had been turned on him so many times today alone. Mike couldn’t remember the last time anyone smiled at him that much. If anyone ever had.

* * *

Micky tried to clean up the kitchen on his own, insisting Mike sit and relax because he was a guest, but Mike couldn’t bear to sit there while Micky did even more work after all he’d done already. Besides, the dog was staring at him and he was nearly certain she was judging him. He got up and stood next to Micky, picked up a wet, clean dish from the rack and stood there, holding it silently, until Micky laughed. “Fine — here’s a dishtowel. Jeez, Mike. You can be real stubborn for a guy who doesn’t say anything.”

Mike permitted himself a very small smile when Micky wasn’t looking as he dried the dish and reached for another.

* * *

And then it was time for bed. Mike put the pillows down on the sofa and eased down onto it. Surprisingly, the sofa was just long enough to accommodate his long legs without having to lie with his feet hanging up over the edge or having to fold himself in two. Not that he was feeling at all picky about sofas. He drew the blanket up over him and everything was soft and warm and clean and he felt tears prick the backs of his eyes because it had been so long since he’d had these creature comforts and it was almost overwhelming.

But he swallowed it all down when Micky came back into the room, smiling when he saw Mike settled in on the couch.

“You got everything you need?”

Mike nodded.

“And please help yourself to anything in the fridge. There’s leftover spaghetti, but other stuff, too.”

Mike knew he wouldn’t raid his host’s fridge in the middle of the night, but he nodded anyway.

Micky fixed him with a rueful look that was still somehow very warm and friendly. “Gosh, you’re quiet. Well … good night.” He clicked off the light and moved off into the hall, calling for You as he went. Mike heard the dog’s tags jingle and then the soft click of Micky’s bedroom door closing.

He stared up at the ceiling, bewildered by the day he’d had and wondering if he’d be able to sleep after all the stimulation and strangeness.

But then, five minutes later, Mike Nesmith was fast asleep.

And smiling.

* * *

That was three days and three nights ago and Mike was still sleeping in Micky’s apartment. He still wasn’t sure how it had all happened.

On the very first morning Mike had been dreading putting his stinky clothes back on, but he certainly wasn’t walking out with Micky’s clothes on. Again, Micky seemed to anticipate this problem and he said, “You know, if you wanna stick around the apartment today, I need to do a wash after work. You can throw your clothes in with mine. And besides, you gotta see this woman, April, with your own eyes to believe it. She’s a laundry scientist, can you believe it? That’s a thing. That exists. It’s far out. She’s far out. Soooooo far out.”

And then Micky wandered out of the room, still talking, and Mike was left blinking after him. He sat down on the sofa and that’s where he stayed all day until Micky came home. Even though Micky had said that Mike could do whatever he wanted while he was gone, Mike just couldn’t seem to get up the nerve to do anything. He just sat there while You stared at him.

_That dog doesn’t like me. I know I’m not just making things up._

“It’s all right, y’know,” he said. “I ain’t hornin’ in on your territory. He’s gonna turf me out tonight, anyway. I’ve imposed enough.”

You let out a snorting bark.

“Yeah, well, same to you!”

* * *

Micky came home from work and gave Mike a brand-new razor and Mike shaved off his beard. Micky grinned when Mike emerged from the bathroom. “There you are! I knew you were under there somewhere! Lookin’ sharp, pal.”

In that moment, Mike could almost pretend that he really was Micky’s pal. That they were just two friends heading out to do laundry. And that he wasn’t heading back to sleeping rough after tonight.

* * *

April Conquest was so breathtakingly beautiful that it made Mike’s palms sweat and his stomach do flip-flops.

“How is she even real,” he breathed.

“She was created in a lab. I’m certain of it,” said Micky conspiratorially. “I bet there’s a serial number printed on the back of her neck. I dare you to go look for it.”

“I will not!” Mike said, jaw dropping. “Micky!”

Micky counted quickly on his fingers. “Nine … nine words! Nine, Mike! A new record. I bet you’re a real Chatty Cathy once you get going.”

Mike scowled at the curly-haired boy, but it quickly softened into a small smile.

* * *

When their laundry was all done, Mike went back with Micky to his place. He took his clean clothes into the bathroom so he could get changed into them. When he came back out, Micky said, “Um, I mean, why you don’t just crash again tonight? It’s already getting late and dark. And someone has to help me eat the rest of that spaghetti. It’ll be no good by tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Mike said.

And it was the same the next night, too. And now Mike sat on the sofa yet again, pretending to be furniture, paralyzed with nerves. He couldn’t keep on this way. He had to figure out what it was Micky wanted. Why did he keep letting Mike stay with him? What was he getting out of it?

“What’s your angle, man?” he muttered to himself. He needed to find out because it would hopefully give him the strength to just leave instead of hanging on day by day, unsure of how long he was going to have food and shelter with Micky. _Just rip off the damn Band-Aid. That’s all this is. It ain’t fixin’ your broken-ass life._

He was still stewing in his unhappy thoughts when Micky bustled inside and greeted his dog as You ran up to him. Micky cast a curious eye into the living room. Every time he came home from work, Mike was sitting in the same spot. Almost as if he hadn’t moved all day.

“Hey, Mike, what did you get up to today?”

Mike shrugged.

Micky moved into the kitchen and opened the fridge. Everything was untouched. Mike wasn’t eating when Micky wasn’t around. Frowning, he pulled out a few things and started to make a sandwich. “I’ll start dinner soon, but I’m so hungry I could eat my arm. Gonna make a little sandwich. I’ll make you one, too.”

That was it. It was too much. Mike stood up suddenly and stammered, so upset he could barely get the words out. “W-w-what … what the hell, Micky. What’s your angle, man? I don’t get it. What’s all this for? _What do you want_?”

Micky turned around slowly, mustard-covered knife still clutched in his hand. “Um. Well, I want to make you a sandwich, Mike. I guess that’s my … angle?”

“I mean it, Micky. Do you do this often? Move strange guys into your apartment and let them sleep on your couch and eat your food and wear your clothes?” Mike’s mouth quivered. Micky had been so kind to him and he couldn’t believe he was saying the things he was saying, but it was just all pent up inside and spilling out uncontrollably. “Like I said, what’s your angle? What’s the catch? I keep waitin’ for it.”

Micky set the knife down carefully and stepped closer. “You’ll be waiting an awfully long time, then.”

Mike’s brow furrowed.

Micky held his hands up. “No catch, Mike. And no, I haven’t done this before. I can’t explain why I did it. I mean, it’s crazy, right? I barely knew you from Adam and I let you into my home. You could have robbed me blind by now. Or killed me in my sleep.”

Mike frowned. “Well, I would never —”

“I know.” Micky grinned. “I just … knew. There’s something about you, man. I dig your vibe. And this is a tough town. I grew up here, so I got an advantage. But it’s brutal if you don’t have any friends. I just thought … we could be friends.”

“That’s all?” Mike scratched his head through his wool hat.

Micky shrugged. “That’s all.”

“Well, that’s crazy!”

“No, what’s crazy is you sitting on your butt all day and not doing anything. You don’t eat, you don’t read, do you even play that guitar you been hauling around?”

Mike blushed and sank back down into the sofa, his moment of bluster over. “It ain’t my place, man. I don’t feel comfortable touching your stuff.”

Micky paused for a moment, then said, “What if it was our place?”

Mike stared up at him. “Huh?”

“You heard me. What if you just … lived here? I know it’s a little small for two guys and a dog, but we’ll make it work. You need a job, right?”

“That’s an understatement.”

“Well, you need a job to afford a place, but you can’t get a job without an address. It’s the old double-cross, y’know? You’re stuck. So you can use this address. And live here. And when you start earning some money, we can split the rent and bills. That would be so groovy. I’d love to save some extra bread.” Micky shrugged again and looked at Mike. “Mike, man, I can’t let you walk out of here and know that you don’t have a place to go. It’s not safe out there, living like that. You know that already.”

“I ain’t no charity case,” Mike grumbled. “Don’t need your pity.”

“I don’t pity you, Mike. I just wanna be your friend. Friends help friends. God knows I’d be in trouble if I didn’t have friends. They look out for me. You can’t do this all alone, Mike. I don’t think you want to, either.”

Mike shook his head, staring at the carpet. “No, I rightly don’t. But once I got in a bad spot, I didn’t know how to get out. And then no one wants anything to do with you if you’re a bum.”

“Except me.”

Mike’s mouth quirked to one side. “Well, you’re the exception because you’re a loon, Micky. One hundred percent certifiable. But maybe I need some of that crazy to get by in this town.”

Micky grinned. “So you’ll stay for good?”

“Best offer I’d ever gotten.”

“Hurray!” Micky beamed and the smile seemed to take over his entire body. “So, can I finish making you a sandwich now?”

“Yeah, you sure can. And I don’t like pickles.”

“I think that’s the first time you’ve actually expressed a preference to me. This is very exciting!”

“Oh, hush, you,” Mike muttered, but he smiled as Micky turned his back and returned to making sandwiches. He had a friend. And a roof over his head. He didn’t have a cent to his name, but in that moment he felt like the richest man in the world.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mike still has a lot of settling in to do. Micky takes him shopping for clothes. And, one day, Mike takes You for a walk and runs into one of the last people he wants to see ...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on some further details from nesmith-tundra's headcanon story on Tumblr, including a particular pink shirt. But all other characters apart from Mike, Micky, and You the dog are mine.
> 
> CW: references to drug addiction and addict behavior; heroin; period-specific references

Mike had a place to stay now and that made all the difference in his day-to-day existence. Things didn’t change much in his head, though. Sometimes Mike wondered if they ever would, but he also realized that maybe he just needed to take it day by day. In spite of Micky’s continued efforts and belief that Mike was “fixed” because he had reliable shelter now, but tell that to his anxiety. And the nightmares he was having about … all kinds of things: his dad, being homeless, things he’d seen and experienced on the street and the people he’d escaped from. He’d wake up on Micky’s sofa, gasping for breath, clammy with cold sweat, and wondering how much noise he’d made and if Micky ever heard him. A couple of times he thought he heard You whining anxiously.

But he’d still been pretty happy the next day when Micky came home from work and gave Mike his very own key to the apartment so he could come and go as he pleased. He’d never had a key to any place before. He didn’t even have a key to his childhood home. There was usually always someone home, but also his pa had it fixed that if Mike missed curfew he was expected to sleep in the yard until morning as part of his punishment. But now he had a little piece of metal in his pocket that guaranteed him entry to a home. … his home. But it didn’t feel like that. Not yet.

And maybe that was one reason why he’d felt unable to move before. The idea that if he moved from Micky’s sofa he might be tempted to leave for a little while. And then he might not be able to come back. Might not be welcome back. Mike had never felt very welcome anywhere before until that moment. But the key in his pocket felt like a symbol. _I’m welcome here. I have a place to be._

* * *

Micky had plans. He gave Mike the key and grinned. “C’mon … let’s go!”

“Go where?” Mike asked softly.

“We’re going shopping for clothes! For you!”

“For me? But Micky, I don’t … I ain’t …”

Micky smiled and shrugged. “I know you ‘ain’t,’ but you need stuff right?”

Mike’s cheeks pinked a little. He only really had one proper outfit and the clothes Micky had loaned him that first night. He didn’t want much, but a different shirt and another pair of pants would really go a long way. But he still had no money.

“Yeah,” he muttered, embarrassed.

Micky risked reaching out to touch his arm. “Hey, Mike. I know … I know it’s real hard for you to … let me buy you stuff. I get it. But … you’re going to be looking for a job and you need some new threads for that, man. This is LA.” He glanced kindly at Mike’s threadbare cardigan with the torn sleeve. It was clean now, but it was looking pretty shabby.

“All right, but I’m payin’ you back, man.”

“I’ll save every receipt!” Mike chuckled as he opened the door and Mike followed him out. “And it’s not going to cost a lot, I swear! That’s the thing about LA, man — what people throw away or give away here is way better than the new stuff you’ll find in any average city. What you find in a thrift store downtown is way better than what you’d find brand-new in a department store in … I dunno … Milwaukee.”

“Whatcha got against Milwaukee, huh?” Mike quipped as they exited the building and headed down the street.

Stricken, Micky looked at Mike. “Oh, I hope I don’t sound like some LA snob, that’s not what I meant, I …” he trailed off as his mouth stretched into a broad grin. “Oh my god, Mike. That was a joke! You made a joke!”

“It’s been known to happen,” Mike muttered, now shrinking a little under Micky’s attention.

“Ladies and gentlemen, Mike Nesmith made a joke!” Micky announced to no one in particular as they walked down the street. “There is hope for him yet!”

“Micky!”

“It’s a beautiful day for a ballgame, folks.”

“Oh, my lord …”

* * *

Shopping for clothes with Micky Dolenz was … intense. Micky favored brightly colored prints and florals that matched both his sunny personality and the burgeoning hippie/psychedelic movement that was taking over the city. Mike had never strayed far from his usual uniform of understated button-down checked shirts, blue jeans, and maybe a sweater. Mostly because his ma had done most of his clothes shopping for him his entire life. Which he felt a little embarrassed about now, but what he did know about shopping for clothes?

Not much, apparently, but he knew what he didn’t like. But he wasn’t in much of a position to argue with Micky, since he was footing the bill. He just tried not to cringe every time Micky said, “Hey, what about THIS? Isn’t it groovy?” before waving another garish print in front of his face.

* * *

_Okay, okay, you gotta stop thinkin’ like you and more like him. Even if you’re not sure what that is_ , Micky thought to himself as he pawed through the racks, looking for something — anything — to offer to Mike that didn’t result in him freezing up anxious terror. Which didn’t make sense to Micky — it was just a shirt, after all. But he was coming to realize that Mike was still pretty freaked out by whatever he’d been through on the streets before he met Micky. And he was really, really uncomfortable with Micky spending money on him. But also being too polite to tell him that he hated anything that Micky showed him. _Jeez, that cat might let me dress him up in a clown costume if I insisted._

When Micky focused his attention — a challenge at times — the things he was looking for began to reveal themselves. Meanwhile, Mike trailed behind him, sometimes reaching out to poke at a rack, but not seeming to know what he was looking for or how to find it even if he knew what it was.

“Okay,” Micky said, “how about these?” He held up two shirts and a pair of pants that he himself would have dismissed as bland, but he saw Mike blink and a corner of his mouth twitch upward.

“Those … those are all right, Micky.”

“Ooh, high praise!” Micky teased. “Okay, but you also gotta try this one on, too. Please! For me!” He pulled out a third shirt and thrust it at Mike.

“Micky … it’s … pink.”

“Sorta. It’s a manly pink! It’s a relaxed red. It’s dusty rose with teeth! It’s … the cut is really cool. Just try it, okay? If you hate it, we’ll put it back. I just have a feeling.”

“Okay, okay, you win,” Mike grumbled, taking the offending shirt and trudging off to the dressing room.

“Can I see?” Micky called out hopefully a few minutes later. “Does anything fit? I had to guess at your size.”

“They look fine, Micky. Don’t worry about it.”

“What about the last shirt? C’mon … lemme see!”

“Hang on … jeez …”

It was quiet for a few minutes. Micky began to get impatient.

“Did you get lost in there or somethin’? C’mon, Mike!”

The door squeaked as Mike stepped out, wearing the new pants … and the “pink” shirt.

Micky let out a low whistle. “Lookin’ sharp!”

Mike looked down at himself, then at Micky. “I … I don’t hate it. I mean … I kinda like it. You really think it looks okay? Not too … y’know …”

Micky shook his head. “Naw, I think it looks really groovy, Mike. It’s very … _au courant_.”

“‘Oh current’?”

Micky grinned. “ _Au courant_. It’s French. I don’t know exactly what it means, but this chick I know says it all the time when she describes something as really groovy and cool. Very now.”

“Well, uh, might be the first time I’ve worn something that’s ‘oh current,’ but if you think it looks okay …”

“Yeah. We’ll get it. We’ll get all of it. Just … to give you a few options, y’know?”

Micky blushed and bit his lip. “… thank you, Micky.”

Micky blushed in return because he knew it was hard for Mike to look him in the eye and thank him like that. “No sweat, man. Like I said, we can square up later. C’mon … get changed and we’ll go grab something to eat.”

* * *

The next day, Micky went to work and Mike was home alone with You again. But this time he was determined not to pass the entire day on the sofa. He even pulled out his guitar and played, soft and low, for a little while. You sat a few feet away, occasionally cocking an ear at the sounds, but she didn’t bark or make a sound otherwise. But when Mike decided to take a break, and laid the guitar back in its case, she ran to the door and whined.

Mike’s brow furrowed. “What’s up, girl? You don’t usually need to go out at this time.”

You barked and scratched at the door. Mike watched her for a few moments, then shrugged. “Okay, okay. I s’pose it would be good for me to get out, too.” He found his key, put on his shoes, then went to the door and picked up the leash hanging on a hook on the wall.

You went nearly apoplectic with excitement the moment Mike touched the leash and he smiled. “I know, I know, girl. It’s pretty terrific, ain’t it?” He knelt and gently clipped the leash to her collar, then opened the door.

You was a small dog, but she lurched forward in a way that nearly pulled Mike over. He laughed, steadying himself and adjusting his hat. “Jeez, You! Hang on a sec — I gotta lock up behind us!”

And then they were out on the street. You ran immediately to mark a tree, but then she looked back at Mike, who shrugged. “This is your domain, girl. Where are we goin’ today?”

You let out a small bark and started walking, tail wagging as they headed down the street. Mike smiled and for the first time he let himself really look around at his surroundings. The sun was bright in the sky, as it was most days, and the air was warm and sweet. He didn’t look like a bum anymore and he was wearing his new shirt. And he was just a guy taking a dog for a walk.

_Or, I guess she’s a dog takin’ a guy for a walk. Maybe she realized I needed this._

He smelled salt in the air and realized they weren’t too far from the beach. You seemed to be directed in that way, so he let it happen, also content to let the dog stop and sniff and mark her surroundings before continuing on.

When they reached the beach, Mike was ready to sit down for a few minutes. He found an unoccupied bench and eased down onto it. You sat as well, letting out a yawn and licking her chops. Mike smiled while watching her, wishing he had a bit of cash on him so he could buy a hot dog or something to share with her as a treat. But he’d sort that out before long when he got a job. Before, he’d been looking for work in a state of panic, which pretty much guaranteed that he wasn’t going to find anything or convince anyone to take a chance on a newcomer from Texas with a patchy work history and few references. But now he could approach it from a calmer place. He wasn’t on the verge of being tossed out on his ass anymore.

He thought about all of this as he and You sat together and watched the water and it was the first time since he’d arrived in LA that Mike felt pretty okay. Like a regular person.

But, unfortunately, the moment was fleeting.

“Hey, there. Haven’t seen your skinny ass around for a while.”

Mike turned at the sound of the familiar, raspy voice that sent unpleasant chills up his spine. “Hey, Rake,” he said reluctantly, feeling a rush of adrenaline as his anxiety spiked.

Rake calling Mike skinny was a bit laughable, given that his street name was based on the fact that he was so tall and emaciated. And would hit you in the face if you tried to step on him.

Rake had long, dirty brown hair and his dark eyes looked like they were carved into his skull. He was smoking a cigarette, his hand tremoring slightly. Rake was also a drug addict. In his early days on the street, Mike had been given some bad advice about a place to crash. A squat that was occupied by a group of friends where maybe Mike could crash.

Turned out the group of “friends” was really more of a gang. Mike spent half a terrifying night curled up in a corner of a decrepit old house with no running water or electricity, his arms wrapped protectively around his guitar and his bag after a few people tried to grab his stuff. Rake was considered the leader, he made it clear that if Mike expected to stay, he was expected to contribute money for the “house.” For the drugs. Any possible way he could get it. He was offered drugs, too. Heroin to numb the pain. To make the days pass easier. First hit was free. After that, he was expected to earn.

Mike knew he was pretty naïve, but he knew a bit about drugs. Knew they were what helped kill Hank Williams, Mike’s first musical hero. And jazz musicians like Charlie Parker and Billie Holiday. He knew it was almost impossible to stop once you got a taste for it and then he’d be stuck in this squat for the rest of his days. Which could be numbered if he got hooked. He’d waited until everyone had nodded off before slipping out into the night. He’d done his best to avoid Rake and his crew ever since, but he’d heard that Rake had been pissed off that Mike had taken off without giving them anything.

And today he’d foolishly forgotten that this was part of the area where they hung out. This part of the beach was also a popular area for tourists and therefor a good spot for stealing unattended wallets and purses while people took a swim. Or selling a good sob story for some easy cash.

Rake scratched idly at a scabbed-over track mark on his arm and made a face. “You cleaned up nice, kid. You found yourself a soft place to land?”

Mike shrugged, unconsciously tugging on the leash to bring You in closer to him. “Yeah, I got a pad now. With a friend.”

“Oh, a _friend_ ,” Rake said, winking knowingly. “Always nice to have a friend. He buy you those nice clothes, too? And a lil’ puppy dog? What a prince.”

“It ain’t like that!” Mike said crossly. “He’s a kid like me. Just helping me get back on my feet. And this is his dog. I’m just takin’ her for a walk.”

Rake smiled, but it was more of an ugly leer. “Gotta earn your keep no matter where you go. Still a bit bummed out you slipped away in the middle of the night like that after we showed you such nice hospitality.”

“Sorry,” Mike mumbled, though he wasn’t really sorry at all. “Wasn’t my scene. Look, man, I gotta split …”

“That’s a nice dog,” Rake interrupted. “Real sweet.”

Alarm bells went off in Mike’s head. He quickly bent down and scooped up the puppy, cradling her against his chest. “Yeah. She’s pretty groovy,” he said, trying to stay calm and casual-sounding.

“Could get a nice price for a dog like that. We could split the sale. Well, maybe sixty-forty since I got the contact.” Rake leered again with a gap-toothed smile.

“I told ya, she ain’t my dog,” Mike said, stepping away from the junkie. “And even if she were, she ain’t for sale.”

“You owe me, man … with interest …”

“I don’t owe you a damn thing,” Mike said, walking away now and praying Rake didn’t follow, though Mike knew he could easily outrun him or best him in a fistfight. “You leave me alone, man. I don’t care what you do, but I ain’t interested, okay?”

“You better stay away from this part of the beach, kid! I mean it!”

“Don’t gotta tell me twice,” Mike muttered to himself as he quickly walked away, unconsciously squeezing the dog closer until she whined in discomfort, also picking up on Mike’s distress. He stopped in his tracks and adjusted his grip, looking down at the puppy. “Aw, jeez, I’m sorry, girl.” He petted her small head very gently. “I got scared, is all. But I wouldn’t let him take you or hurt you. Wouldn’t let anyone. No way. Especially now since maybe we’re becoming friends.”

You whined again, but this time she stretched up and licked Mike’s chin. He smiled and let out a chuckle. “That’s mighty nice of you. C’mon … let’s go home. It’s also real nice to be able to say that, huh?” He gently set You on the sidewalk and wrapped the leash around his hand before the man and dog headed back to the apartment.

The run-in with Rake had shaken him up, but he was also proud with how he handled himself. Having You to protect made a difference. Back home, Mike had been used to looking out for and caring for his younger siblings, but here, he didn’t have anyone to look after. Apart from himself and he was proving to be pretty lousy at that. Maybe someday he could be of more use to Micky than he was now, but having someone or something outside of himself to care for had grounded Mike more than he’d realized.

And he also needed a job. He needed to feel useful and to contribute, but not in the way that Rake and his crew had wanted. Mike just wanted to be able to buy food and help Micky with the bills and then, maybe when things were more settled, he could start thinking about music again.

Eventually. First things first …


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The nights were hard. But friends make things better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: non-graphic references to previous abuse; corporal punishment

Mike still didn’t talk very much. There were a lot of things Mike didn’t talk about.

One day Micky had come out of the bathroom and accidentally come upon Mike getting dressed. He stopped short and held back a gasp. He’d known that Mike was skinny and malnourished and Micky was working hard on feeding him up and eventually getting some meat on his bones, but seeing him with his shirt off had been a shock. Every one of Mike’s ribs were clearly visible — Micky was struck by a weird image of old cartoons with comical skeletons who’d play their rib bones like a xylophone. But there was nothing comical about this. Mike’s gaunt condition was alarming enough, but Micky also took in the array of bruises and lacerations on Mike’s arms and back. One time, earlier, Micky had patted Mike on the back and he’d hissed in pain. Stricken, Micky had apologized for hurting him. 

“S’okay,” Mike had muttered. “Just a bit sore in some places. I, uh … had a few run-ins out there.”

“With who?” Micky had blurted out. As if it mattered, but the thought of anyone putting their hands on Mike and hurting him was deeply upsetting. Mike was so kind and gentle — why would anyone want to hurt him?

Mike shrugged. “Cops sometimes. When they caught me sleepin’ somewhere they didn’t like. And just … other folks. Sometimes I’d be on their turf and they didn’t take kindly to it.”

Micky had opened his mouth to ask more questions, but the look on Mike’s face shut that down quickly. “Ain’t nothin’, Micky. That’s just how it was. I’m getting better, promise.”

The bruises and cuts were healing, thankfully, but Micky took in one more alarming detail. Scars on his back. Some long and thin, some a bit thicker. As if he’d been beaten with a switch or a belt. A lot of them looked like old scars, too. As a boy, Micky had known some kids whose parents were “strict.” That was code for getting a licking when you misbehaved. Micky’s parents were less old-fashioned and didn’t believe in that kind of discipline. Sometimes he got a quick spanking, but just with a hand and never on bare skin. But he remembered sometimes seeing marks on his friends’ bodies when they would get changed for gym class. But never like what he saw on Mike. If any of that came from Mike’s folks … _strict_ wasn’t the word for them. Not by a long shot.

He only looked for a moment or two, but even that felt invasive, so Micky coughed as he entered the room. Mike’s head whipped around and he grabbed for his shirt. Micky caught a glimpse of his naked torso from the front and his gaunt appearance was even more pronounced. Not to mention more scars and bruises. Mike quickly shrugged his shirt on and looked at Micky, who looked back at him. A long moment passed between them as Mike pressed his lips together and gave his head an almost imperceptible shake. _I don’t wanna talk about it._ Micky gave a slight nod and turned away, moving into the kitchen and making a production about brewing coffee. 

* * *

Micky was a deep sleeper, but since Mike had moved in he found himself stirring at some points during the night when You woke up and would go on high alert. Sometimes it was just tension in her little body, but other times she whined softly and stood up. But Micky was always half asleep and tended to roll over and drift off again moments later, figuring if anything was really off, the dog would let him know. You was sensitive and attuned to things that Micky could neither see nor hear. Micky didn’t bother himself with those things.

But one night he woke up to You’s urgent whining and scratching at the closed door. And then Micky heard another sound ... a fearful kind of moaning. Followed by a sharply cried, “No … NO! Please!”

_Mike!_

Micky stumbled out of bed and opened the door. You ran out and leapt onto the sofa, barking and nosing Mike’s cheek. By the time Micky caught up, Mike had awoken with a gasp and whimpered in fear, disoriented, his wide hazel eyes staring uncomprehendingly up at Micky in terror through the dark as he tried to ball himself up in the corner of the sofa.

Micky realized he was unintentionally looming over Mike and quickly dropped to his knees and fumbled to turn on a lamp. “Mike … Mike, it’s me, Micky! You’re safe, Mike. Please wake up. You’re safe. It’s just a dream.”

You barked more and began nosing and licking Mike’s face and that seemed to shake him out of it. He petted her shakily and gazed at Micky, his cheeks flushing scarlet. 

“I woke you up. I’m sorry.” His voice was shaky and raspy.

Micky shook his head. “It’s okay, Mike. The dog woke me up, technically. She … always knows when someone is having a nightmare. She wakes me up from mine all the time.”

You whined softly and turned around in a circle before settling down on Mike’s chest.

Micky smiled. “I think she wants to stay with you for a while. Is that okay?”

Mike looked down at the puppy, who yawned and closed her eyes. “Well …. she looks so darned comfortable now. Would hate to disturb her.”

Micky grinned. “That’s her M.O., man. She’s playing you like a fiddle, but I think you should let her.” He paused for a moment, then rubbed the back of his neck, feeling awkward. “Do you wanna talk about what —”

“No,” Mike said flatly. 

“Okay,” said Micky. “But … just … if you ever wanna, you can talk to me. I’m not one of those fellas who think that talking about … stuff … is a sissy thing.”

“But maybe _I_ am,” Mike muttered, unable to look at Micky.

Micky forced a half-smile and shrugged. “Just sayin’, Mike. So … I’ll leave my door open a little bit. And if You gets on your nerves, you can just put her in my room and close the door, okay? Or maybe she’ll come back on her own when you go back to sleep.”

Mike nodded. “Okay. Sorry … sorry I woke you, Micky.” He didn’t know how to tell Micky that the nightmares happened almost every night and he didn’t know how to stop them and that this was probably only the first of many times he’d disturb Micky’s sleep. _He’ll probably throw me out eventually. It would drive me crazy if someone woke me up every night because they couldn’t get their head together._

He didn’t think he’d be able to fall asleep again, but You’s weight on his chest was comforting and warm and he drifted off before long. The dog stayed with him until sunrise, when she gracefully hopped off sleeping Mike and padded back into Micky’s room, jumping onto the curly-haired boy’s bed and nestling herself in her favorite spot between his knobby knees.

* * *

They didn’t talk about it, but every night after that, Micky left his bedroom door ajar and You started coming to Mike when he had his nightmares. Often waking him up before they got really bad and before he made enough noise to wake up Micky as a result. 

“Thank you,” he whispered to the dog one night, knowing it was silly because it wasn’t like she could understand words, but she sure seemed to understand a lot of everything else. She licked his tear-stained face and pressed her tiny body close to him as he calmed down and stopped shaking. “Thank you, girl. I don’t know how you know, but you know. And it’s … it don’t make no sense. I’m far away from Texas now. From my pa. He can’t hurt me no more. But I guess I worry about him being there with my mama and my brothers and sisters. Sometimes I think I’m a huge coward for leavin’ them behind with him.” Mike sniffled and wiped his face with the back of his hand. “But I think it’ll be better for them now. I made him so mad all the time, girl. I tried to make him proud of me, but I’m such a screw-up. A failure. It’s just a matter of time before Micky sees it and kicks me out. I’ve never belonged anywhere. With anyone. I’m just a waste of time. I’m nothin’.” 

You blinked at him and then licked his hand. Mike smiled and swallowed a sob. “I gotta stop with the pity party, man,” he whispered. “You’re just a pup — you can only do so much and you’re doing all you can. For a stupid hick like me. Even though I just distract Micky all the time. Sometimes I think I should just clear out and let him get back to his life.”

“Don’t you dare, Michael Nesmith,” Micky said softly, coming from around the corner.

Mike startled. “Micky! I … I was just … He frowned, torn between being annoyed and embarrassed at being overheard.

“I didn’t mean to eavesdrop,” Micky said, stepping farther into the room. “But You woke me up when she ran to you. She’s been … doin’ that most every night, hasn’t she? Because of your bad dreams.”

Mike shrugged, blushing, looking down at the dog who was looking at Micky.

“Mike, I’m not gonna kick you out. Not now … not ever.”

Another shrug.

“You don’t believe me, do you?”

A third shrug.

“You’ve been hurt a lot, haven’t you?” Micky said, but he didn’t expect an answer. He perched on the end of the sofa. “I’m … I guess I’m lucky. I know some people get screwed-up families. I had some friends who … well, let’s just say going to their house wasn’t like being at mine. I know I’m lucky. And that’s what it is … luck. You get the hand you’re dealt. And there are some people who are so damn miserable that they don’t want anyone else to be happy, either. And they make those people feel like nothing. Because it makes them feel better.”

Mike lifted his head slowly, hesitantly, looking at Micky in the dim light.

Micky swallowed, then screwed up his courage. “You’re not nothing, Mike. And you’re not a failure. It just seems like you’ve had people holding you back and holding you down. And I’m not one of those people, okay? I don’t wanna hurt you and I don’t wanna hold you back. Maybe some day you’ll decide you wanna leave here because you’re off to bigger and better things. But it won’t be because I’ll make you go. I promise.”

Mike stared at Micky, unable to find words to reply.

Micky fidgeted with the corner of the blanket. “You’ve mentioned brothers and sisters before. Are you the eldest?”

Mike nodded. “Of six.”

Micky let out a low whistle. “Me, too. I mean, I’m the eldest. Of four.” He looked at Mike. “Did you ever help them out when they had bad dreams?”

Mike nodded again, staring down at his hands. “Yeah. Pa would … he’d get real sore if we cried and woke him up. He was a light sleeper and he’d get real bothered even if Ma got up to come to us. So I … I’d go see to ’em.” He’d done that since he was little. Even holding the babies and changing their diapers and getting them a bottle sometimes. Though his dad usually hadn’t gotten so cranky about the babies crying. Even he knew they were just babies and couldn’t help it. And crying was their way of telling them needed something really bad. But they got older they were expected to be “good” and quiet all night.

Micky couldn’t believe he was getting Mike to talk this much. But there was something about the low, dim light and the intimacy of nighttime. Though he had no idea how Mike would respond to his next suggestion.

“Me, too,” he said softly. “I mean … not that my parents wouldn’t come to them, but my sisters liked it when I’d lie down with them. I can sleep anywhere, so it never really bothered me. Sometimes I’d sing ’em a song or tell ’em a goofy story to help them relax.” He looked up at Mike. “I could … lie down with you for a little while. I’d feel better if I could do that. Want to make sure you feel okay.”

He saw Mike tense up slightly. But he appeared to be struggling with himself. “I ain’t a little kid, Micky,” he whispered.

“I know,” said Micky. “But everyone needs someone to just … lie down with them sometimes. You is pretty great, but she’s just a little puppy.”

Mike shrugged. “If you … I guess … okay …” He certainly wasn’t going to insist. But if Micky wanted to stay for a little while, then …

Micky smiled and carefully slid up on his side, pressing his back against the back of the sofa and tugging the blanket up over the two of them. You made a huffing sound and curled up on top of the blanket between them. “It’s a big sofa and we’re both skinny guys. I got a story about this sofa. You wanna hear it?”

Mike was quiet for a moment, unsure of how he felt at the moment. Having Micky so close. But … it was Micky. And having him near and hearing his voice was helping clear out the remnants of his nightmare. He didn’t want to admit that he’d bunked in with his younger brothers quite a bit. When they had bad dreams or when Pa had had too much to drink and was yelling. He liked the sounds of other people around him. Their breathing and even snoring. But that had changed when he was homeless and the sound of other people was usually a bad sign.

But Micky was safe. Micky was good. Micky’s curly hair was tickling his cheek and suddenly Mike really wanted to hear the story about the sofa.

“Okay, Micky,” he said softly. “What’s the story about this here sofa?”

“Well!” Micky began dramatically. “This sofa used to be in our house. And there were four kids and two dogs and three cats and, well, we were just going though a sofa a year and they were never big enough. And finally, one day, Dad yelled ‘I’VE HAD ENOUGH!’ This sofa ain’t the big enough for the two of us! Like a cowboy … dig?”

Mike chuckled softly even as his eyes closed. “But there were more’n two of you …”

“Yeah, but then the joke doesn’t work. So he decided he was going to get one made special. He had a friend who made furniture and one night after supper we all sat down and gave Dad ideas about the perfect sofa.”

Mike smiled, his hand drifting to pet You gently. “I bet your ideas were far out, Micky …”

“Well,” Micky said his voice growing quieter as he saw Mike’s eyes close. “You’d be right, Mike. My demands for gold fringe and racing stripes and wheels and a motor were sadly ignored. Dad said it sounded like I wanted a car more than anything. I said no, I just want a sofa that can drive to the kitchen for a snack during the commercials!”

“What did you get?” Mike mumbled.

“I got to pick the color. I like green a lot. But anyway … that’s why it’s so big. Big enough for two tall guys and a dog with lots of room to spare. It’s used to holding a lot more people. And Dad picked out some kinda fabric that was hard for animals to chew. We called it the magic sofa. It’s lasted forever and them they gave it to me and …”

Mike fell asleep around that time, knowing he was on the magic sofa with his best friend and a dog and there was room for him for as long as he wanted it.

Micky smiled when he saw Mike was asleep. He knew this wasn’t a permanent solution to Mike’s problems, but if he could help sometimes, then that was good. He closed his eyes and fell asleep on the safe, magic sofa.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mike is getting stronger. And braver. And he makes a few interesting discoveries about Micky.

It wasn’t like Mike was magically cured after the night Micky slept by his side on the sofa, but it helped. Knowing that he didn’t have to worry so much about waking Micky up if he had a nightmare helped him relax more and he didn’t have quite as many bad dreams. Micky still left his door ajar so You could come to him if he did have a bad scare. And if it woke Micky up, too, he would usually come in and sleep on “magic sofa” with Mike. They didn’t talk about it. Sometimes they didn’t even speak. Micky would just shuffle into the living room, already falling back asleep and crawl in next to Mike, making soft, sleepy sounds and drifting off soon after. Mike was glad they didn’t talk about it because he would have no idea how to express to Micky how having him nearby helped him feel safe after a really bad dream. How he liked the sound of Micky’s breathing and even his occasional snoring.

In his waking hours, Micky tried to remember not to touch Mike very much or even at all. His wounds had healed, but he often flinched if Micky touched him or made any sudden movements or raised his voice. Considering Micky was a naturally tactile, loud, hyperactive person … he made Mike flinch a lot at first and he felt bad about it. But Mike felt bad about it too, but was starting to get used to Micky’s ways. Finding predictable patterns in his often unpredictable behavior. He’d learned to do that with his pa. Sometimes there was no telling what might set Pa off, but if the weather was lousy or if he came home early from work (usually meaning he’d been fired again) or the Cowboys lost an important game, Mike knew to make himself scarce.

He didn’t have to do that with Micky. It just helped to remember that Micky was easily excited and if he’d had a really good day or his favorite song came on the radio or the Dodgers won a game — any game — Micky would be extra boisterous and Mike learned to be less startled.

And he also learned that Micky was a cuddler. And in sleep, he simply couldn’t help it. The first time it happened, Mike was so startled he fell off the couch. Micky snorted awake and looked down at Mike over the edge of the cushion, blinking sleepily. “What … whaddya doin’ on the floor, Mike? Did you have another bad dream?”

He didn’t realize he’d even touched Mike. Mike chuckled to himself, shaking his head.

Micky frowned, confused. “Huh? What’s so funny?”

“Nothin’ Mick. Nothin’. Mike picked himself up and lay down on the sofa next to his friend. “Go back to sleep. Everything’s fine.” _You darn fool boy_.

“M’kay.” And Micky was out again. Mike envied his ability to sleep so easily and so deeply. Like everything Micky did, he gave it his all and fully committed to the moment.

And the next time Micky spooned Mike or let an arm flop over Mike’s narrow chest, he allowed it to happen. It was actually kind of nice. Nice to be touched in a way that didn’t threaten pain. But he tried not to think about that. Pa took up enough room in his mind as it was.

* * *

Days passed and Mike was getting more sleep and had even put on a pound or two. Food used to cause him a great deal of anxiety when he didn’t know where his next meal was coming from. He still wanted to get a job to contribute to the bills and expenses, but Micky didn’t pressure him and seemed to more than understand that Mike had been through a terrible ordeal and just needed some time to get back on his feet. He tried to make up for it by tidying up the apartment. Which was a daily chore as Micky had a habit of moving through a room like a cyclone, leaving chaos and disarray in his wake. He didn’t mean to do it. It was almost as if his very energy poured off him in waves and disturbed everything around him. Mike was surprised the music store hadn’t fallen victim to the same treatment, but when Micky was in work mode, he was able to rein himself in more.

Mike knew he was starting to feel a little better when he felt like playing more music. At his lowest point on the street, he’d thought of smashing his guitar to smithereens and probably would have if he hadn’t been so weak from hunger. It looked to him like a symbol of failure. When he couldn’t even raise up more than a few nickels playing songs on the street it felt like the ultimate slap in the face. Though deep down he knew it was because he looked like a derelict. Because that was exactly what he had been. People couldn’t wait to get away from him.

If he’d wanted to get rid of his guitar, the more logical choice would have been to pawn it, but he hadn’t exactly been in a logical state of mind. _Tomorrow_ , he’d think. _I’ll destroy it tomorrow. Or toss it off the pier. Or throw it under a bus. It’ll feel so good to watch it get torn apart. But not today._

He lifted the guitar tenderly from its battered case and stroked his hand lovingly over the smooth finish. “Thank goodness ‘tomorrow’ never came,” he murmured to himself. “Thank goodness I kept going. Thank goodness for Micky.” He looked down at the German Shepherd puppy who cocked her head in return. “Thank goodness for you, You.” He strummed a little, adjusted the tuning, then cleared his throat. There was a song he’d been fiddling with for ages, but hadn’t come up with a refrain he liked. He hadn’t played it in a long time because for a long time it made him sad. It was a song he’d written back in Dallas when he’d dreamed of a better future if he could just leave home. It had been a hopeful song. And as his life had slowly drained of any hope, the song felt like a curse.

But not anymore. He still had a ways to go, but he had hope again. And a friend. And a dog that didn’t seem to resent him nearly as much. She still ran to him every time he had a bad dream.

He strummed chords and mumbled the first words that came into his head. “I have no more than I did before … but …” he furrowed his brow and smiled, “but now I’ve got all that I need.” He grinned at the dog, delighted with the words. “’Cos I love You and I know You loves me!”

He cracked up good and proper there and You barked and ran around in circles.

“Man, that ain’t half bad,” Mike said, still chuckling. “Though people are gonna think I’m illiterate if I use ‘you’ that way. But maybe just when I’m jamming here.” He reached for a pencil to scratch down the words before they flew out of his head. Then he caught himself. “Just when I’m jamming here.” He was thinking as if he might actually play his guitar somewhere else than the privacy of Micky’s empty living room. He’d never even opened the case in front of his friend. “Well, I’ll be …” he murmured to himself. More hopeful than he realized.

He started the song from the top.

“No heartaches felt no longer lonely

“Nights of waiting finally won me

“Happiness that's all rolled up in You.”

He grinned for a beat, thinking how funny it was if he made this song all about a dog.

“And now with You as inspiration

“I look toward a destination

“Sunny bright that once before was blue …”

He played the song through slowly, quietly, using the new refrain. And he liked it. He liked it a lot. So he played it again. Faster. Louder. His fingers loosened up and the muscle memory was returning and he didn’t have to think about the chords … they just came. His voice was clear and true. He felt a warmth returning to his heart that only music had ever given him.

* * *

Micky heard the music the moment he opened the door to the building. Curious, he wondered which of his neighbors was performing. The guitar playing was incredible and that voice … with a distinctive kind of twang … Mike! Jaw dropping, Micky ran down the hall and sure enough, the sound was coming from inside his apartment! Micky opened the door and was astonished to see Mike on his feet, playing and singing and moving to the song. It didn’t sound familiar to Micky and he wondered if it was something Mike had written himself. His heart swelled with happiness for his friend — seeing the guitar be neglected (at least when Micky was home) had made him feel sad and he hoped Mike would get to playing again soon.

He started clapping and Mike froze, the lyrics dying in his throat.

“Mike!” Micky exclaimed. “That was so good! You’re amazing! I could hear it when I came in the door … you’re so good, man! I love it. Did you write that?”

Mike chanced a small smile and nodded. “Yeah. It’s uh … I did. Um …”

“Why’d you stop?”

Mike shrugged. He was pretty used to being yelled at to stop “that racket” when he was home and got so caught up in his songs that he forgot to put his guitar away before Pa got home.

“You … wanna hear me sing?” he said hesitantly.

“Uh, YEAH!” Micky said, twirling a finger near his temple to indicate that Mike was being crazy. “I wanna hear everything! Play that song again. I think the dog really likes it.”

“She would. I think she’s stolen it from me and made it all about her.”

Micky chuckled, moving into the living room and hopping onto the sofa. “I knew I was mucking around with cosmic forces in naming a dog You.” He stretched out and looked up at the tall Texan. “So, what’s that ditty called, pal?”

“Dunno. Ain’t got a name yet.”

“No offence, but that title is _terrible_!”

“Micky, I didn’t mean … oh … Micky!”

Micky grinned. “Gotcha.”

“I’ll call it ‘Micky Dolenz has a smart mouth.’”

“Nice ring to it!”

“Hmmm.” Mike chuckled in spite of himself and launched into the hopeful song with no name.

* * *

Later that evening, after supper Micky took a bath and Mike heard him singing the song except with a harmony on the refrain. Micky’s singing voice was high and clear and melodic, and Mike wondered why it never occurred to him to ask Micky if he was musical. He worked in a music store, for goodness’ sake. It was the first time Mike had ever heard anyone other than him sing a song that he’d written himself. It sounded really good. He picked up his guitar and tried out Micky’s variation on the refrain. He liked it. He padded down the hall and knocked hesitantly on the door.

“Still in the bath!” Micky called back, making exaggerated splashing sounds and Mike shook his head as he heard water slop onto the floor.

“Now, you be careful gettin’ outta that tub, Micky. Makin’ a mess in there. Don’t slip and brain yourself.”

“Sure thing, Mike. Can I help you with anything else? Care for a cocktail? Light snack?”

“Har-har-har. Naw … I just wanted you to sing that harnomy refrain on my song like you did earlier.”

“Harnomy,” Micky repeated, delighted by Mike’s malapropism. “Harnomy and grits!”

“Huh?”

“Nothin’ … uh, hey, you can open the door. I went a bit overboard with the bubble bath so you, uh …” Micky’s voice shifted into a faux posh English accent “won’t see anything _untoward_ , good sir.”

“Oh. Uh … okay, sure. Probably easier than singin’ through a door.” Mike cautiously opened the door and sure enough, Micky was up to his neck in bubbles.

“So, I’ll take it from the second verse and you can chime in on —”

“I can do harnomy on the whole thing if you want,” Micky interrupted shyly.

Mike looked at him. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. Wanna try it?”

“And you just thought that up.”

Micky shrugged from his nest of bubbles. “I just … hear it. In my head, dig?”

Mike smiled. “I dig. I hear music in my head, too. It’s just getting it to sound right that’s the hard part.”

Micky nodded. “Tell me about it.”

Mike found himself blushing a little as they found another thing in common … an admission made while Micky was naked in the tub, of all places! Mike shook his head. “Okay, Mick, I’ll count us in …”

Micky sat up straighter and braced his arms on the edges of the tub.

They sang together. Mike on the melody and Micky taking the higher harmony.

“So take my hand I'll start my journey

“Free from all the helpless worry

“That besets a man when he’s alone.”

They stared at each other, delighted by the sound they made together.

“For strength is mine when we're together

“And with you I know I’ll never

“Have to pass the high road for the low

“I have no more than I did before

“But now I’ve got all that I need

“For I love you and I know you love me.”

Micky let out a whoop and Mike slapped his thigh. “Well … hot damn, Micky! That sounded good!”

“Good? It sounded great!” Micky exclaimed, grinning ear to ear. “I mean, okay … the acoustics in this bathroom are incredible, but I think we sound pretty fab.”

“You got a really great voice, Micky,” Mike said shyly. “I … I’m sorry I never bothered to ask you before.”

Micky smiled. “Mike, I was just happy if you said ‘good morning’ and ‘good night’ for the first couple of weeks you were here. I figured we’d get to know more stuff about each other eventually. It’s a small apartment!”

A shadow passed over Mike’s expression and Micky shook his head. “Hey, hey, Mike … I can comment on the smallness of this apartment and it’s not a hint that you take up too much space. _I_ take up too much space! I grew up on a ranch and even then my mom said it wasn’t enough room to contain me.”

Mike nodded, a little embarrassed, but he was so sensitive to being a burden on Micky. “Um … maybe we can sing together some more later?” he asked shyly.

Micky nodded happily. “That would be really groovy, Mike. I’m just … real happy you shared your music with me. It’s really good. Like … really good. You made the right decision coming to California, even if it was a real rough start. Your music needs to be here.”

Mike blushed scarlet and couldn’t find words to respond except a mumbled “Gee, thanks, Mick …” before he backed out of the room and closed the door to let Micky finish bathing in peace.

Other than his siblings, no one had ever told Mike they liked his music before. And until this very moment, Mike didn’t realize he’d needed someone to tell him that coming out to Los Angeles wasn’t the biggest mistake he’d ever made in his short life. Another weight fell off his often heavy heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I lifted the "harnomy/harnomy and grits" bit from the Monkees studio banter during the "Mary Mary" overdub sessions. Whether it was on purpose or not, Mike let that malapropism fly and Micky riffed on it in a delightful way. If you haven't listened to the audio of the session, look it up on YouTube. It is wonderful.


End file.
